Author Topic: A poem  (Read 2630 times)

Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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A poem
« on: February 25, 2008, 05:18:48 pm »
I write poetry sometimes.

How does he

How does he know her?
I see her flighted tremble-
her ardor draws the bow
of her smile tight across
pale marble stepping-stones,
guardians of all the passions
of her mouth and I wonder;
does he find her poised
or as I find her, wild
overrun with appetite
raw voracious craving
pure distilled longing
bright unshaded burning?
Does he find her feral
born gentle, gone dangerous
full of the power of her beauty
full of the opus of her vulva?
Does he strike her ardor
does he keep her temper
does he find her yielding
does he test her mettle?
I find her giving, giving
tender, guarded, mad,
forgiving: and trying
as I do to not be caught
staring, I wonder
how does he know her?
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #1 on: February 25, 2008, 05:56:05 pm »
Even while I leave you

I waited for you. Now I leave you.

The gates of your teeth enthrall me
rising up on the waves of your laughter,
opening the coral castle of your marine
wonderland to the tender parts of you.

Your hair is white against mine, making
me bless my darkness on your alabaster.
We touch often but seldom, and between
us leave a permanent paint on our wrists.

Your eyes are grey as beaches, and your skin
shades of the bones of sand dollars. Parts of
you swell with the blood that lies close to
the surface, red as carnelian, red as birth.

Against you I am the northwest mud
that your ocean pulls black hairy sand
dollars from to murder for your skin.
I am brown and black and brown again.

I give them to you willingly.
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #2 on: February 25, 2008, 05:57:32 pm »
She is not snow

She is not golden.
No, she is not snow.
She is red and grey
and coral promontory,
soft as kittens,
feeling as children.
For her everything
is real, the world
and more that is
not world, but veils
beyond consciousness,
beyond wanted thought.
She has always wanted
and need is her need.
She is red and grey
and for her I am need,
for her I will be children.
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Sir Squid Diddimus

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Re: A poem
« Reply #3 on: February 25, 2008, 05:59:29 pm »
you know what makes these fantastic when i read them?


the last line of each one is "total rapist"

Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #4 on: February 25, 2008, 05:59:37 pm »
Why in a poem is something
almost always bruised?
I tire of bruised. Bruised
with passion, with violence,
maybe just a plummy color
of sunsets over apricot
orchards, always adding
atmosphere to someone's
poetic darling, their sneeze.
Bruised skies, bruised thighs,
bruised bloodshot pinpoint eyes,
bruised fruit from trees with
bruised bark under bruised
clouds in a lowering sky
under God's bruised pride.
I tire of bruised.

Let's all get abraded.
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #5 on: February 25, 2008, 06:00:22 pm »
you know what makes these fantastic when i read them?


the last line of each one is "total rapist"

 :thanks:
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Hoopla!

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Re: A poem
« Reply #6 on: February 25, 2008, 06:48:34 pm »
I really dig these, Nigel.
“Soon all of us will have special names” — Professor Brian O’Blivion

"Now's not the time to get silly, so wear your big boots and jump on the garbage clowns." — Bob Dylan?

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes" — Walt Whitman

Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #7 on: February 25, 2008, 06:51:22 pm »
Thanks!
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #8 on: February 25, 2008, 06:51:59 pm »
And I
and I said...

Hey, you're CUTE

And he took me upstairs and
and and

Oops he said, and
laughed
and sighed

and I
said

I sure am glad
that after all this time
I still think you're cute.
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: A poem
« Reply #9 on: February 25, 2008, 06:55:30 pm »
Hey little girl, you with the big appetite

The first time I saw you, naked, squalling
laid on my belly with your cord still pulsing
oh darling, I was overcome with your hunger
you bruised my nipple with your voracity
you knew what to do and you set out for it.
Oh god I loved you from your first stirrings
I loved your kick and I loved your anger
your lust for life, your outraged screaming
your slimy wet nuzzlings at my bosom!
They counted your fingers and exclaimed
at how long they were, how strong you were.
I knew your strength, I'd felt it for months
counting the jolts in my belly and smiling
at our own inner secret, our union, our bond
and you, here, finally outside me, covered
in blood and vernix and all I could think of
was how soft your skin was, how beautiful
your hair. Eleven hours of labor, nothing!
I could do it again, on my head, arms tied!
Your father wept, proudly; like a little girl
was how he described it, like his daughter.
And you, my darling, my pride, oblivious
to us and to all but your discomfort at this
sudden change of environment, you slid
into our world all purple and mad, full of
the rage of the newborn, perfectly righteous,
perfectly formed, perfectly loved, and all,
everything, was in an instant perfectly right.
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Richter

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Re: A poem
« Reply #10 on: February 25, 2008, 08:24:51 pm »
Only had time to read "How does he", but I'm liking it! 
Kind of a Dickinson / Cummings vibe overall.


Anyone ever think about how Richter inhabits the same reality as you and just scream and scream and scream, but in a good way?   :lulz:

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